


The Book Without Pages

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-17
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: || proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem laeseris ||  These are the scattered thoughts and shattered emotions of one Pansy Parkinson, collected to stand as testimony of her hereditarily designed ascent within the Dark Lord’s ranks.  But, dear witness, it has been said that, “Adversity is the seed of well-doing,”� and Pansy will come to know such adversity...





	1. Rose-Petal Sadistic

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page One: Rose-Petal Sadistic   
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11   
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson   
**Rating:** R (adult situations; child / sexual abuse suggested)   
**Notes:** originally published 14 June 2005 \\\ 2349; heavily influenced by “Slide”� by the Dresden Dolls. This series focuses on Pansy Parkinson, though other characters will appear scattered throughout.   
**Word Count:** 751   
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5   
**Summary:** Your past slips to darkness. Your future grows weaker.   
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. 

 

**_____________________________________**

**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**

[] PAGE ONE: ROSE-PETAL SADISTIC

**_____________________________________**

 

**It is a** day late in May.

You are playing outside.

A day late in May.

There is a swing set, a slide.

You are wearing your green dress, the one Mother likes.

There are children on the carousel, spinning round and around.

There is a swing set, there is a slide.

You sit on the swing, your little feet dangling.

There is a man standing close. He takes a step closer.

Your mother, she smiles, and she nods at you.

He asks you if you want to go for a ride.

A little green-frocked girl is rocked in a swing.

He is tall and thin and is dressed in all black.

You can’t see his eyes for the light of the sun.

But you can see his teeth. They are perfect and white.

You swing back and forth. Your feet touch the sky.

The thin man is smiling...

**ˆž**

 

You swing ever higher. You feel like a bird.

You look up at the man. All you see are his teeth.

You look to your Mother, a blur of colour.

She smiles and she nods and you feel light headed.

You tell the man to push harder.

He laughs and he does so and you feel like you are growing.

You swing so high you think you can reach the clouds.

You place a hand in front of you.

Almost.

Higher.

Just.

A little.

More...

**ˆž**

 

You reach too far and you slip and go tumbling.

Your Mother is laughing and you hear the man mumbling.

You reached too far and crashed down from the sky.

The man kneels down next to you and asks if it hurts.

You don’t notice then that there’s a tear in your skirt.

But he does.

Your Mother is there and she says you’ll be fine.

That the man will take care of you, will keep you safe.

You don’t understand and you ask her why.

She smiles and she nods and she tells you a lie.

He’ll take you away and keep you safe...

**ˆž**

 

You are named after a flower.

A child of the spring.

Your Mother likes Paris.

Father likes Milan.

You remember sunlight and afternoon tea.

You are named after a flower.

Yours is the second down door.

Your dress has been ripped, the skirt torn.

He dresses you in black now, just like him.

Wrinkles at the corner of your eyes.

Little girl looks are starting to die.

Smiles are all fake now.

You’ve become quite the liar.

Hair has grown long.

Hips and breasts growing larger.

Legs spread wider...

Your past slips to darkness. Your future grows weaker.

You are halfway down the hall now.

He doesn’t like to wait.

Sometimes he shakes when in a rage.

Fist in his pocket.

You make him wait.

You are coming.

The Dark Lord.

You are coming...

**ˆž**

 

Mother and Father.

For the blaming.

They made you into this...nothing.

Into his plaything.

You must do your duty.

That’s all they ever told you.

You must do your duty.

The Dark Lord is due.

You draw closer to his chamber.

Your vision unclouds.

What you see has become painful.

But you are too far away to feel it.

You feel that your heart long ago rusted, corroded.

There is nothing left within but a disintegrating husk.

You slip into his room and you dislocate from here...

**ˆž**

 

Your mind starts to spin out of control.

You close your eyes as he begins disrobing.

He moves your arms over your head.

You feel the blood flowing through all of your arteries, through all of your veins.

It makes the mark upon your left arm sing.

Your heart still carries a beat, but you don’t care, you don’t notice.

You are focussed on a day late in May.

You don’t hear him laughing...

Laughing...

**ˆž**

 

Mother said that you would be fine.

That he would take care of you.

That he would teach you and keep you safe.

Father said don’t worry.

It was all for the best.

He’s got you.

Don’t worry, they said.

He’s got you.

You begin to wonder what it would be like to be dead.

The Dark Lord, he’s got you....

 

**”**


	2. Daisy Chains and Laughs

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page Two: Daisy Chains and Laughs   
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11   
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson; Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Black-Lestrange referred to  
 **Rating:** R (adult situations; child abuse suggested)   
**Notes:** originally published 17 June 2005 \\\ 1453   
**Word Count:** 1,178   
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5   
**Summary:** She imagined herself as Erida. She would only be appeased when blood was spilled.  
 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

 

**_____________________________________**

**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**

[] PAGE TWO: DAISY CHAINS AND LAUGHS

**_____________________________________**

 

**She supposed that** they had thought she would have hung herself long ago, using the silken bed linens in her chamber.

It was too impractical. The fabric would never hold, despite her slender frame. The linens would slip; the noose would give.

The fires that burned deep inside of her allowed her to look upon such grim matters with a clinical eye.

She had no reason to stay alive. None that she could determine. She did not have the desire, but she did not lack the will to live.

She was drowning beneath miles of apathy.

Despite the many ways in which she defied him, he never tired of her. If anything, he seemed to be amused by her defiance. It made her seem beautiful in his view.

He liked beautiful things. He especially liked breaking them.

All of them, every single last one of them, was either sick in the body, having been ravaged by years on the run or incarceration in Azkaban, or were sick in the soul, poisoned and twisted. Some were even both.

Everything that she was hated them.

Hated Bellatrix Lestrange in particular.

Her life, her beauty, her intellect, was in ruins. All for him.

And for what dark piece of gain?

For all of the secrets that she kept those years in Azkaban, what reward had been given her?

She was once like a blood red rose. There were portraits, photographs, personal accounts. She was once a woman to be envied, a force to be reckoned with. She was in the full bloom of her life when she gave herself wholly to the Dark Lord.

And he crushed the blossom broken and the rose was dead.

Whatever was left of her, the mad, the sane, whichever decided to occasionally surface, was forever chained to the Dark Lord’s side. Like some pet.

Sick. All them. Especially her. So sick in her mind. She thought herself beautiful still, and the Dark Lord allowed her that illusion.

She hated her. She was choking beneath miles of perfect hatred, a hatred that burned through everything.

She imagined herself as Erida. She would only be appeased when blood was spilled.

Bellatrix’s blood. Lucius’ blood. His blood. It did not matter.

Every morning she was in their presence she awoke to forget the meagre comforts of the yesterdays preceding her arrival home, and she was instantly filled with hate.

She wished to find her Ares. She wished so desperately she could scarcely breathe.

She imagined that this was yet another reason why he kept her in his presence. She fit in perfectly with her elders, the Death Eaters.

She felt all other parts of herself melting away, fading.

She hated Bellatrix.

She hated her because she feared her.

She was afraid that one day she too would wither like a rose clutched in his fist.

She was still beautiful, in the way that made Lucius’ eyes linger for far too long, in the way that made Rodolphus smirk at her, that made Rabastan’s eyes flicker across her form.

For a lesser girl, their unwanted attentions would have been reasons for her to feel beautiful.

Their stares and the felony implied made her feel sick to her stomach.

Her parents gave the Dark Lord her body, but she would never sell her soul. She was sold as a child, but she was much more resilient than even the Dark Lord had anticipated. She had turned hard and cold and bitter. He had attempted to steal her heart away, just like Bellatrix, but she learned to fake her obedience to him instead of surrendering herself to him.

The Death Eaters. Pathetic.

She felt that she stood on the other side of the endless night they desired for their Dark Lord. That she was watching them from the world that they denied themselves in an attempt to convince each other that they were the beautiful ones, made glorious through the sounds and the sights and the tears of the Mudbloods and Muggles dying. 

Their faith blinded them.

One day, when the war was over and they had won, they would know true suffering. The afterglow of battle and righteousness would fade, leaving them with the truth. That they were empty and hollow inside. They would ache and they would weep and they would drown in their own tears.

Their loyalty blinded them.

They lost everything. They were too easy to break.

Her heart was frozen in her breast and her mouth breathed bitterly. She knew the truth and it burned and twisted and cut her inside. She knew that the Dark Lord knew this. She knew that the Dark Lord could see her disdain.

She found no use in hiding it. She wasn’t afraid of death. She was, however, afraid of dying, so she did as she was instructed to.

But she would not surrender her soul. She would not become a thing, a wretched, hungry, clawing thing like Bellatrix. No, she would never succumb to that. Be killed by the rapture of the Dark Lord.

She would rather suffer the odd punishment or two than to subjugate herself. The pain would serve as a reminder. She would know that she was still herself and that she was still alive. If she were to be trapped in this futile existence until their victory, her days and nights might as well hurt.

It would help her to wile away the time. Far better than staring at the remains of Bellatrix Lestrange. She had her moments of sanity, when the torturous veil shifted and her cunning and intellect shown through. Most of the time, she was nothing more than a babbling blur of a woman, little more than a stain of her former self, possessed. Dressed in the deepest shade of blood red, the dual bride of Rodolphus and Voldemort. Her dark eyes glittering, her movements feral, predatory. Her footfalls silent, her hips swaying to an imagined rhythm.

But always, those damned dark orbs shimmering in the pale, gaunt face.

She hated that face, hated those eyes, hated everything that Bellatrix meant to her.

Failure.

Weakness.

Servitude.

Obedience.

Sex.

Object.

Possibilities.

If she gave herself to the Dark Lord, gave herself completely, she might be just like Bellatrix. Her eyes, her heart, her mind, her soul, all in deepest, unrelenting shadow.

Those eyes.

Damn, dark things.

One day soon, she just might be so moved as to gouge those black eyes out with the tip of her wand.

Pathetic, vile, creature.

And she knew that this was why the Dark Lord kept her close to him, why he favoured her despite her resistance to his absolute power.

Because she was the only one who would dare to kill the most loyal of the old guard. Her loathing and her antipathy and her conceit and her stubborn adolescence made it so. She was the only one who would willingly kill Bellatrix Lestrange, or anyone else that dared enter her dark vision.

And for this the Dark Lord thought Pansy Parkinson to be most beautiful.

 

**”**


	3. Enlightened To Perceive

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page Three: Enlightened To Perceive   
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11   
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson   
**Rating:** R (adult situations; child abuse suggested)   
**Notes:** originally published 22 June 2005 \\\ 1258   
**Word Count:** 920   
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5   
**Summary:** _Pain has an element of blank._   
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

 

**_____________________________________**

**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**

[] PAGE THREE: ENLIGHTENED TO PERCEIVE

**_____________________________________**

 

_Pain has an element of blank;_  
It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were  
A day when it was not. 

_It has no future but itself,_  
Its infinite realms contain  
Its past, enlightened to perceive  
New periods of pain. 

"Part One: Life | XIX", **Emily Dickinson** (1830—86)

 

**Running.**

 

 

You are always running.

There is no plan for where. No maps. No idealized destination. Only hundreds of thousands of departures, never an arrival. You don’t think that you’ll ever stop running.

You don’t think that you know how.

 

**ˆž**

 

**You are fatigued** by this constant retreat.

 

There isn’t sleep for you, not anymore. Just an unnatural darkness, the lost sense of peace, the dreams that keep you company. You have come to believe that no other of your kind has dreams. The knowledge comforts you in some strange way. You are unique among them, singular, solitary. You like to believe that you are the only one among them to dream. You like to imagine that, amongst your kind, dreaming inspires a form of fear. Resentment. But never any violence. Your...supposed betters, your elders, most are too languid and too bored to do much more than to indulge themselves in a panto of mental cruelty. You believe that the way that you...are, it speaks to a part of them hidden deep within. You are unlike any other. You dream. You repudiate. You do not yield. You believe.

You are still in command of your soul.

You have not succumbed entirely to your heritage. You have not surrendered yourself to it. Or, your heritage has no desire to take the rest of you. Perhaps you leave too bitter a taste in its mouth. His mouth. No matter. You have little need for escape from your human condition. Although the pain grows with the passage of time, you seek no end. There is no end for you. It will never end. The dreams and the pain and the guilt and the loss will live on, eternal, in damnation. History never dies; neither shall the pain within you.

World without end.

But that is neither here nor now, that is not the reason why you decide to take up an archaic ritual of communication with which you hope to prove your soul, whatever is left of it. The tattered remains of a humanity to which you so desperately cling. Is it out of pride? Perhaps necessity? All you know is that your memories, your pain, those are the only things that fill your hollow breast, which fill the void within your chest, which provide the rhythm instead of the cold heart inside of you, inured to all hope and feeling by necessity. Your diminished humanity makes you run from him in the only manner left available to you. The humanity that remains causes them fear. Your humanity causes you pain. And your humanity has driven you to unusual measures.

 

**ˆž**

 

**You have never** kept a diary before. It always seemed so futile. A paltry retelling of the trivialities of life. More of a weakness. In any rate, your memory was always keen. And, you had never a cause to writ a testament of. Until now.

In the scant years that you have been alive – no, not quite alive, in the few years in which you have existed, you have always run. You have always remembered. It wasn’t as such always. Not in the beginning. It never is that way.

Once, when you were still young, young at heart, young in mind, you thought that you were destined to be with another, that there was someone out there in the world who was your perfect match, someone that you could give yourself to completely. Perhaps it was true — but it was not for you to discover. Any opportunity that you might have had was ripped from you.

Betrothed to another without so much as a by your leave. Sold into a birthright.

And now...

Part of you, the part that remembers a thing called hope, thinks that you might not be as alone as you once thought. There might be one who can touch your heart and soul. Not him, not Voldemort, but another. The irrational part of you remembers the childish fancies. The foolish thoughts that there just might be one who can see into your spirit, who will accept you, regardless of taint, who can even...love you. That there might be one who can make you feel at peace, safe and secure in the closeness that you share, one who can hold your soul. There is one that knows of the isolation within you; he did not shy from it. If anything, against all imaginings, he seems to understand it. You could see then that he held that isolation within him.

Fear blossoms within your breast at such thoughts. It can be that, despite the situation you found yourselves in, that there is someone with whom your passions might be made one, your minds and intellect can be made one, your spirits be enmeshed, your essences intertwined.

But such a thing can never be. Happiness is not a concept so easily discussed among those who deal in death and destruction and delight in the misery of others. How can you feel..anything? Let alone have feelings for anyone?

No, such things are madness and folly and it is simply impossible.

You are always running. You cannot stop.

What event transpired that gave cause to your personal grief and misery that gave you the feet to run, to run eternally? What would be the point in finding out?

That is why you have decided to keep a diary: to use as a cenotaph for the humanity left in the ruins of your foreshortened childhood.

Yes, the pain has become too great for you to bear.

 

**”**


	4. Without A Quicker Blood

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page Four: Without A Quicker Blood  
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11  
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson  
**Rating:** R (adult situations)  
**Notes:** originally published 27 June 2005 \\\ 1250  
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson  
**Rating:** R (adult situations)  
**Word Count:** 1,098  
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5  
**Summary:** It’s in these moments that I remind myself that I must try to learn to be less alive.  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.  
  
  
  
  
**_____________________________________**  
  
  
**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**  
  
  
[] PAGE FOUR: WITHOUT A QUICKER BLOOD  
  
  
**_____________________________________**  
  
  
  
  


  
__**Part Five: The Single Hound  
LXX**  
 **Emily Dickinson** (1830—86)

_In winter, in my room,_  
I came upon a worm,  
Pink, lank, and warm.  
But as he was a worm  
And worms presume,  
Not quite with him at home–  
Secured him by a string  
To something neighboring,  
And went along.

**I like it** here.

Hogwarts.

I like it.

It’s not _there_. It’s not _home_.

It’s quiet. It’s safe. I can be free here.

We all can.

We still have our roles to play, but it’s better than being at home. At least we can breathe.

And sometimes the role-play can provide a bit of sport. Winding Granger and her lot up has offered hours of entertainment.

I can be alone when I want to be. Though we usually travel in a group, I can leave them whenever I like.

It’s the wintertime. I like the winter. I especially like this winter, as I am not going home for the holidays. I’m staying at Hogwarts. Many of us are staying here. We’ve grown tired of the endless charade of home life and society. We’ve especially grown tired of Childermas.

We’re not sons and daughters as much as we are centrepieces and place settings for Childermas. We’re ornaments, baubles, pretty precious things. Keepsakes, mementoes, present memories of the Childermas of years since forgotten.

Listen to me whinge on as if it actually mattered what I thought or felt.

Besides, many of the Gryffindors are staying, and that promises much in the way of idle pursuits.

Even though the ground is white with snow, I still like to sit by the lake. It assumes a difference aspect in the winter. The chill grants an appearance of innocence and purity. I like to think of it thusly.

I always take my broom out to the lake when there has been a fresh snowfall. I don’t like to sully the ground with my footsteps.

Many students have laid claim to parts of the lake as their own. The golden Trio has their own tree with a view of the lake. It’s on the shore closest to the island. My perch is opposite them, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The passing of years has hewn a seat into one of the boulders. It is like an ancient Druid throne, after a fashion. It’s protected on either side by larger boulders. I can sit there and watch the lake and not be spotted, not if I wrap my cloak around me and sit still.

_A trifle afterward_  
A thing occurred,  
I’d not believe it if I heard–  
But state with creeping blood;  
A snake, with mottles rare,  
Surveyed my chamber floor,  
In feature as the worm before,  
But ringed with power.  
The very string  
With which I tied him, too,  
When he was mean and new,  
That string was there.

  


I am sitting at the water’s edge, on my throne. I watch the movement of the water; observe the shapes and the colours of the stones on the shore. I turn over runes and their meanings and application in my memory, studying.

It’s in these moments that I remind myself that I must try to learn to be less alive.

They prey upon that.

Life.

The living.

They’ve long ago forgotten how...

They are worse than the vampires are. At least the vampires admit their cruel nature.

They are the greater obscenity. What is worse, to be impure in blood or to be tainted in spirit?

They have lost the thread. Too enchanted by a forked tongue. They think that we don’t know about him, but we do. They lie to us, we lie to them. It’s what families do best.

In the cold, I practise focussing my will. I have honed the ability to remain shock still, have mastered slowing my heart beat. I can dislocate, disconnect, pull back from the outside world. Hide from what’s out here. I can still my breath to the point that I could well feign death.

I might try that in the Great Hall some time.

It is cold out here, and remaining still makes it colder still, but I prefer the chill. I like the numbness.

Numb, that’s one of my oldest memories. First towards my mother, then towards my father. Then toward myself.

Numb replaced hope. Hope was something I wanted to abandon. But, strangely, it never left me. I can still feel it, fluttering deep inside. My body is numb but something remains within...

I’m little more than a handsomely petulant face hiding pent up emotion.

One of these days, I think I’ll explode.

_I shrank–“How fair you are!”�_  
Propitiation’s claw–  
“Afraid,”� he hissed,  
“Of me?”�  
“No cordiality?”�  
He fathomed me.  
Then, to a rhythm slim  
Secreted in his form,  
As patterns swim,  
Projected him.

  


It’s called meditation. What I do in my throne by the side of the lake. I've read this.

When I focus my thoughts on the water and the stones. When I slow my pulse and limit my breathing. Meditation.

I’m sure it would seem strange, if I ever explained it to someone, my endeavour to slow the blood in my arteries and veins.

I wonder what I look like when I manage that.

Are there ripples on my forehead? Wrinkles around my eyes?

Do I knit my brows together in that fevered concentration? Are my eyes narrowed into slits?

Is my face blank?

Do I look as though I am alive? Or do I look like a statue, as if I am part of this rock?

Tucked away, between the shore and the tree line, sitting cross-legged on my granite throne. Trying to forget the past. Trying to dream of a future.

When the forbidden fruit, those plans of our parents, are strewn about, half eaten, left to decay, that’s when I’m going to start breathing again. That’s when I’m going to start living.

When their plans have come and gone.

_That time I flew,_  
Both eyes his way,  
Lest he pursue–  
Nor ever ceased to run,  
Till, in a distant town,  
Towns on from mine–  
I sat me down;  
This was a dream.

  


Deadness. The numb. It comes to me like an old friend.

It’s one of my first memories. Among the oldest of my memories. I had early use for numb, for its protections, for its gifts.

Thanks to the idolatry of my mother and the subservience of my father I was rendered into a porcelain doll, cold and unfeeling.

The one sitting very still in her dressing chair, with the green velvet dress and the smooth black hair, that’s me.

The one sitting very still on the weathered headstone, with the black suited vestments and the smooth blonde hair, that’s he.

With the numbness I had hoped that these memories, these regrets, would have been abandoned in the passage of time. The past left in the dust. Memories meant to fade, to detach from all recollection, to float away on the ebb and swell of the years.

The more I try to forget, the more I remember.

Remember.

_I perceive that this is also vexation of spirit._

The more I embrace the numbness, good old numbness, the more...open my heart and mind seems to be. I cannot explain this.

I still feel. Everything. Churning inside of me. I still remember, I still feel. It’s still there, trapped inside, beneath the icy floe, but there all the same.

I’m not certain for how long the ice will hold. Any more repressed emotion and I think I might explode.

Oh, Draco, won’t that be fun to watch?

**”**


	5. Acts of Atonement

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page Five: Acts of Atonement  
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11  
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy; Pansy Parkinson/Draco Malfoy  
**Rating:** R (adult situations)  
**Notes:** originally published 01 July 2005 \\\ 2247  
**Word Count:** 751  
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5  
**Summary:** _Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies, then criticize, now laugh._  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

**_____________________________________**   


**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**   


[] PAGE FIVE: ACTS OF ATONEMENT  


**_____________________________________**   


  


_Observation._ “It’s raining again.”� 

_A glance toward the window. Confirmation._ “So it is.”� 

_A venture._ ‘Would you like to go for a walk?”� 

“Are you mad? It’s raining.”� 

“Yes, I know.”� _Head is averted to the floor._

“A walk in the rain?”� _Voice, quiet, without trace of mockery or disdain._

_Eyes meet._ “Yes.”� 

_Pause for effect._ “Okay.”� 

**ˆž**

  


_The rain falling. The sky is grey. There is wind._

“Do you remember right and wrong?”� _A shudder._

_Cloaks wrapped ever tighter against the elements._

“I’m not certain. I stopped remembering everything long ago.”� 

“Did you stop feeling as well?”� 

_Pause for consideration. Sound of wind driven rain and gravel underfoot._

“Yes.”� 

_Companionable silence despite the damp and the chill._

“Do…”� _Hesitation._ “Do we even belong here?”� 

“I don’t know.”� _Honesty._ “I can’t tell much of anything anymore.”� 

“Not even time?”� 

“No, especially time.”� _Understanding._ “Is it the same for you?”� 

“Yes.”� _Excitement at a shared experience._ “The days…they way they flow by anymore…they’re just like moments turned into hours.”� 

“That is how I feel. That is exactly how I feel.”� 

_Faces turned toward the path. Smiles beneath the hoods. The rain is no longer as cold when it reaches skin._

“Have you…spoken to your mother recently?”� 

“Yes.”� 

“How is she?”� _Programmed enquiry._

“Well, thank you.”� _Programmed response._

“Is your mother well?”� _Conditioning._

“Yes, she is, thank you.”� _Reflex._

_Pause for examination._ “Do you think that…they…”�

“Do I think that they went through what we are going through?”� 

_A terrible thought._

“Yes.”� 

“I suppose so. But I’ll wager neither of our mothers ever danced through his version of hellfire.”� 

_Realisation._ “They made you do that?”� 

“Yes.”� _A pause._ “Did they make you…?”� _Courage, fleeting._

“No. Not that.”� _Remembrance._ “I had to do…other things.”� 

_Flashes. Anger. Disgust. Questions of why, how, and why._ “I’m sorry.”� _Sincerity._

“Thank you.”� _Gratitude._

_Moving forward. Walk without sound. Silent faces staring at the ground._

Desperation, frustration, anticipation; all quiet screaming. 

No one is listening.

**ˆž**

  


“Do you believe in Heaven or Hell?”� 

_A bemused smile._ “That’s a bit out of nowhere.”� 

“Yes it is.”� _Sigh._ “It’s the mood that I am in.”� 

“Fair enough.”� _Watching steps. Left after right after left. Crunching on the gravel. Squelching in the wet grass._ “I don’t believe. That’s not for us. But if there is a hell…”�

“Yes?”� 

“I'm sure this is how it feels.”� _Stand still._ “I wish that this were a dream, but no, it isn’t, is it?”� 

_Listening to the rain fall. It is gentle against the cloaks, on the ground._

“I’m sorry that it isn’t.”� _A touch. Fingers reach out and brush damp skin._

“Why? Why is it like this? Why do we have to be like this? Do we belong to them? Are we right or are they wrong?”� 

“I…don’t know.”� 

_Silence. Then…_

“I feel so alone.”� 

_Hands touch. Contact._

“You’re not alone.”� _Whisper._

_A very long look. Silver gazing into the deepest shade of midnight._ “No. I’m not.”� 

“Don’t think of home. Don’t. That’s what makes it hurt, that’s what makes you so lonely.”� 

“And you?”� 

“Yes.”� 

_Awkward smile._ “For some reason, I think of this place as my home.”� 

_Fingers intertwine. A hint of a blush. Chances. Changes._

Risk of feeling. 

Risk of freedom. 

Together.  
  
  
  
  


**ˆž**

  


_Beneath the trees. Dark. Hidden._

“It seems to me that we’ve bargained ourselves into an inescapable criminal’s destiny.”� 

“Don’t you mean they?”� 

“What?”� 

“They’ve bargained. We had nothing to do with it other than to be born.”� 

_A wry smile._ “You are quite right about that.”� 

_Watching the rain. Random, chaotic, dancing through the leaves._

“It’s coming, isn’t it?”� _Fear._

“It is.”� 

“Can you see it?”� 

“No, but I can practically smell it. Some damned death wish wind blowing across our lives. Bringing nothing but suffering, emptiness, a pain that never ceases.”� 

“It is only going to get harder.”� 

_Sudden anger. A fist driven into the bark of a tree._ “Fuck him. I won’t do what he tells me.”� 

“You have to.”� 

“Why?”� _Snarl through grit teeth._

“Because…”�

“That’s precious.”� 

“Let me finish.”� 

_The sound of rain falling._

“Because, no matter how difficult the path is, we have to keep on living. If you disobey him, disobey them, you are dead.”� 

“Maybe that’s what I want.”� 

“I don’t believe you.”� _Impassioned._ “Don't look away. Listen to me. We have to keep on living. We have to. It’s…our expiation.”� 

“Expiation... But we did nothing other than be born.”� 

“Then we pay for their arrogance in bringing us into this world. That arrogance will be their downfall. You should be alive to see it.”� 

_Laugh._ “You think that he will be defeated?”� 

“I don’t know what I think. I don’t even know what is real anymore. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that we are not figurines. We’re more than mere pieces on his chess board, set to fall like leaves, created only to serve and then disappear. Made to keep call.”� 

“So we live?”� 

“Yes, we live, we breathe, and then mock the air they draw in. They are appalling, you know this. They are weak. Pathetic. Feeble and broken.”� 

_More laughter. Sardonic._ “Sometimes you can really be too much.”� 

“I do what I can.”� _Glib._ “If I don’t…I can't take another day.”� 

_Glances meet again._ “I guess that I've just had enough of it. Of them. The more time that passes, the more I can feel my mind slipping away. I am falling out of touch with everything, especially myself. I can’t explain it.”� 

“I…understand.”� 

_A gasp._ “You do?”� 

“Yes. Do you have any idea of how many times I’ve set my mind for the open sky, but at the end of the day I couldn't fly away?”� _Another laugh, self-loathing._ “So bloody sad. What am I if I can’t free myself from this? What am I?”� 

_A sigh, and then…_ “Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies, then criticize, now laugh.”� 

“What is that? Some kind of poem?”� 

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s something I thought once. When…I was someplace I didn’t want to be. When I didn’t want my own reality.”� 

_A sharp laugh._ “What **is** real?”� 

_Shared laughter._ “I don’t know. It's really all become too much, hasn’t it?”� 

“Yes. It has.”� 

“I’m not sure what I should feel.”� 

“I’m not sure either.”� 

“I guess I've finally had enough. I just…I don't know if this is real. Fading, crashing, in and out of touch. I wish I could explain it.”� 

“Don’t.”� 

_Silence. An emotional embrace. Lips meeting. Hands seeking._

Time to forget. 

Time to believe. 

Time for regret.

**”**


	6. Disorders and Their Inherent Purity

**Title:** The Book Without Pages, Page Six: Disorders and Their Inherent Purity  
**Author:** carondelet / carondelet11  
**Character(s) / Pairing:** Pansy Parkinson **Rating:** R (adult situations)  
**Notes:** originally published 05 July 2005 2157 **Word Count:** 1,326  
**Spoilers:** Books 1-5  
**Summary:** There are no words.  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

**_____________________________________**

**THE BOOK WITHOUT PAGES**

[] PAGE SIX: DISORDERS AND THEIR INHERENT PURITY

**_____________________________________**

**William Shakespeare** (1564 1616) Sonnet XLIII

_When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed._

**The darkness glows.** It s unearthly...within me. Pulsing softly. Quietly purring to itself. Waiting. The darkness is getting brighter. 

There are no words. 

I just... 

No. 

No more. 

There are no words. 

I believed you. In the beginning. I believed every word that you said. I believed in your everything. 

I believed in you. Both of you. 

You were nothing more than concepts. Fantasies. 

Now it s gone. All gone. Fade away, gone. Good bye. 

You left me here. Torn. Bruised. Bloodied. 

Just the way you like it. 

You left me in shreds. Tattered. Discarded. 

Disconnect. 

You gave birth to me and then you left me. Begat me. Brought me forth into your world. Didn't even take the time to love me. You... 

You forsook me. 

You left me. You took it all away from me. All of the things that I wanted, I needed. What I really wanted and needed, nothing material, everything maternal. Paternal. You took it all. You left me. 

You left me to stand here, like some voiceless doll, left me to wonder& what did I do? What had I done? Where did it all go to? 

This love that I was supposed to have what happened to it? 

I believed you. In the beginning. I believed many things. That some things, things like love and happiness, could be mine. That is what I was led to believe. 

My naÃ¯veté has left me now. Now that it's gone...I can t even mourn its loss. It wasn t worth having in the first place, was it? 

I m not frightened anymore. 

It was so easy for you, wasn t it, mother, father. It took no time at all for your parental love for me to grow cold. It should be of no wonder to you that I walk this life with my head facing the ground. 

You relinquished me. 

Tell me where, where did I go? 

You gave birth to me, made me love you. And then you surrendered me. 

Why? 

Is it because I loved you? 

Then I take it back. I take it all back. I didn t mean any of it. 

I didn t mean...when I said...what I said...I didn t... 

Don't forsake me... 

_Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!_

I feel like the shadows are eating away at my flesh. Assuming its place as my primary skin. Shedding the pale pink in place of a dull grey. Picking. Peeling back. 

Things are changing. Shifting. I can see it now. There are signs. There are warnings. I've tried to ignore it. If you don't see it happen, it never did. 

I've been hiding. Inside my head. Using my pomposity and fortunate breeding to shield my eyes. For carrying my nose so high aloft, I should have been inching along, prostrate. I didn't want to see then. Not years ago, not hours ago, not a moment ago. I'm tired of this endless self-reflection, this meditation upon who and what I could have been. If not for them. 

I don't know how to clear my mind anymore. 

Cobwebs. Dust. Confusion. Insecurity. Chaos. Have I been blinded by delusions of grandeur? No, but we are not who we are. 

I'm sick of wallowing in my parents' sin. 

My own sin. 

There are times that I almost envy the Mudbloods. Some of them find peace in things. Ritualistic behaviours. Chants. Incantations. Potions. Totems. 

Cross. The Word. Heaven. Hell. 

I don t understand. 

There is no belief for me. There is no Heaven, no Hell. Those ideas are as abstract to me as Muggle science. There are no saints, no sinners. We are all damned in our own way. By our own hand. 

There is no crown of thorns, no throne, no gates nor angels on high. But there is a devil. There is only the devil. And he is subtil. He is evil. He is...hurt. He is the turn, the twist, the practice, the intent; he is the personification of the very word. 

The religion of the Muggles and some Mudbloods. Impractical magic, that is what I've heard it called. They speak to a Father, a Son, and a Holy Ghost. 

They would make it into a religion, like the Muggles. A cult of personality. They think themselves to be so different, better, than the Muggles and the Mudbloods. But they wish to practice the same deception. Our parents wish to perform some unholy hoax using him. Telling us, telling themselves, to believe in him and his message. To believe the lie. 

I have no faith. I still have certain beliefs, but no faith in the Muggle sense of the word. If there s one thing I don't believe in... 

It's him. 

Our Dark Lord. 

There are changes coming. The war has been engaged. 

I want it to consume me. 

I've already been rendered inside out. I want to have the war wash over me, cleanse me of everything. The rhetoric, the ordeals, the memories, the hollow promises. I'm weary of thinking. Constant contemplation of what? my miserable existence, for too short / too long a turn. 

I have no will. I didn't choose to live. I didn't choose to kill. I didn't choose to die. I didn't choose to lie. To hate. To fear.

There are changes coming. I wonder what lies on the other side of the wave. 

As I turn into my shadow, who awaits me on the darkest side? 

_How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!_

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. 

I wish I could run. 

I want to do something. 

Do anything. 

Something drastic. 

Before I fracture. 

I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to dream. I want to sleep without memory. I want to hide. I want to fight. I want to claw at them. I want them to hurt the way I do. I want to run until the tears run down my cheeks and the breath burns deep inside my chest. I want to run until I feel nothing but pain, in my legs, in my throat, in my side. 

I want to run faster. Faster than thought or light. 

I want to leave this behind, the pain and the sadness and the anger and the regret and the confusion and the I don t know anymore, leave it all behind. 

I want to run until there is no more pain. Until the concept of pain has shifted in my perception to a blur. Until it has caused all sensation to recede, to slip into the background. I want to run to that imaginary far point on the horizon. The one between the night after tomorrow and the future that might not hold me. 

I want to run until light and sound washes over me in waves. I want to run until I can no longer hear the lies that they are saying. 

I was once a child. I am a child. I was born old. I was never a child. I was never born. 

I can t look anymore. 

I can t stare& at the past, at my reflection, at the future. 

I can t see the change that is coming. I won t see it. I just want it to happen, to unfold, to envelope me, to swallow me whole. 

From my periphery, I catch sight, nothing more than a fleeting glimpse, a vague perception. I see something. 

I turn to look. 

But, like you, mother, father, it is gone. 

There is no imprint on my recollection. I cannot place a finger upon it now. I cannot remember. 

I think it was important. 

I think it was... 

Me. 

I was a child. 

I am a child. 

A childhood...that was never to be. 

That never felt quite real to me. 

I am a child. No, I never was. In body, but in mind&

That child is grown. The hopes and dreams have gone, just like you, mother and father. 

Funny. Those words. Terms. Endearments. Special in usage and in meaning. Precise. Significant. 

Mother. A female parent. 

Father. A male parent. 

Parent. A person who brings up and cares for another. 

You never felt quite that real to me. 


End file.
